


Tom Solves A Problem

by SolitaryEngel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ambiguous Age, Blackmail, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Masochism, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possessive Behavior, Servant Harry, Sociopath Tom Riddle, happy-ish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 03:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryEngel/pseuds/SolitaryEngel
Summary: Harry has been avoiding Tom for a week.This is a problem.It's up to Harry whether the solution is one grave, or two.





	Tom Solves A Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thesilea_in_Space](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesilea_in_Space/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Thesilea_in_Space](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesilea_in_Space/pseuds/Thesilea_in_Space) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Tom Riddle hiding in the shadows watching maid/servant!Harry suck his father's dick

* * *

* * *

“Roast gosling,” a low voice murmured by his side as his dinner was set in place in front of him.

“Hm,” he acknowledged, eyes stuck to the end of the table where Harry was currently placing his father’s plate. Tom’s eyes traveled up the sleeve of his uniform to his downturned face, noting the way he was still avoiding eye contact with anyone, even Tom.

How unusual.

How _ displeasing. _

“What’s the word from Master Armsman?” his father inquired as the servants backed up to stand silently by the walls in wait.

Following his father’s lead, Tom picked up his dinner fork and knife and began carving a slice of meat off the gosling’s breast.

“He agreed to reduce the handling fee,” Tom answered smoothly, contemplating the way Harry was staring at his feet as he popped his bite into his mouth. Harry fidgeted with deepening discomfort, apparently not unaware of his attention. Tom swallowed. 

Delicious.

“That is… good,” his father said slowly. Tom flicked his gaze away from Harry and back to his father who was considering the former direction of his stare with a downward twist to his mouth. “Tell me, son, how is Miss Thompson doing?”

“She is well,” Tom replied easily, driving his knife into the joint between the bird’s leg and thigh with a satisfying _ crunch_. His father shifted, uneasy, and Tom smiled politely back while he worked on stripping the leg of its flesh. “She is very much looking forward to the Griffith’s flower viewing party. I offered to escort her, of course.”

Father’s mouth twisted. “Of course,” he repeated in defeat. “Let me know when you think she’s likely to accept your suit and I’ll put an offer on her.”

“Certainly.”

The rest of the dinner was spent in silence, and Tom let it in favor of studying Harry — more discreetly than before, as was apparently necessary. As boredom set in his favorite servant was free to think more, and as Tom had often noticed over the years… a thinking Harry was a very _ communicative _ Harry. He watched, alert, as that lovely face ran the gamut of argumentative, upset, disgusted, and pleading emotions as he participated in whatever silent conversation he was hearing. Tom chewed slowly as he ran through the possible causes for such an extreme set of displayed emotions, none of them acceptable.

“I believe I will retire early,” his father announced at the conclusion of the dessert course. “Harrison, once you are done with your duties here, please bring three fingers of my favorite brandy to my room.”

As Tom watched, Harry’s hands fisted and his eyes briefly closed. Praying for strength, Tom surmised. Harry retained a few odd habits like that.

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured.

“And Tom, the day will be full tomorrow, with the visit to the shipwright’s planned in the morning. Do consider retiring early, yourself.”

Despite the phrasing, it was not a request. Harry looked properly miserable by that point, and Tom was a smart man. “That sounds like a fine plan,” he responded, standing as his father did and giving a half-bow as his elder left the room.

Harry scurried off to the kitchen, Father's plate in hand… and avoiding being alone with him.

Like _ Hell _ was Tom going to sleep without some fucking answers.

Within his suite Tom cast off his dinner jacket, waistcoat, and shoes before making his way to the unoccupied room down the hall from his father’s residence with silent, socked feet. There, he sat in the chaise, waiting with even breathing and a set jaw to the quiet creaking of the manor until he heard the unusually slow footsteps which heralded Harry’s approach and passing.

He counted to sixty before following. If Harry was only delivering a drink, they should pass each other in the hall. If Harry was only delivering a drink, nobody needed to die today.

He heard his father’s voice, low and rendered incomprehensible by the distance. Then he heard Harry’s.

“Yes, sir.”

Fuck. Someone was going to _ die _ for putting that tone in Harry’s sweet voice. That tone matched his awful miserable face earlier perfectly. Tom felt his fingers curl, as if around the knife he’d used on the Thompson’s hound dog after it had bitten his hand. He could almost feel its weight settling into their grasp.

“That’s right,” his father’s gloating voice floated out to greet him as he crept up on the door. Through the small crack in the door, he saw his father sitting in his bedside chair, his head tilted back and hips canted forward as _ his Harry _ knelt before him, bobbing his head in Father’s lap.

His hand clenched tightly, the apparition of the knife completely banished from his thoughts. Father hummed appreciatively, tapping his fingers on the armrests.

While his cock was being sucked by _ his fucking Harry. _

He was going to fucking _ die. _ The only question left was whether Harry would be going with him. As slurps and the distinct noise of wet, broken suction washed over his hiding spot rhythmically his resolve and excitement grew, hand in hand. '_There couldn’t be blood, could there?’ _ he mused, unhooking one side of his suspenders and unbuttoning his trousers distractedly. _ ‘The coroner would surely be called to inspect the wounds, if there were.’ _

Harry’s shoulders tensed with an odd little quake as Father’s hand lifted to pat him on the head like one of their hounds. A murder-suicide could explain the blood on both bodies, Tom decided, tugging himself at the same pace as Harry’s movements. He had such a skillful little mouth, it seemed. His father was practically squirming. It would be such a shame to shut it forever, but it was out of his hands, now. Even if Harry was unwilling, he couldn’t let this level of betrayal stand.

He _ could _ make it appear as if his father was attacked on the road towards their country estate, he reasoned with himself as the hand on Harry’s head suddenly grabbed his curly black hair in a tight grip and shoved the boy’s head down faster. Bodies often went missing in such scenarios, he could keep his father in the basement for _ weeks. _ So many long, glorious weeks. His breath hitched in his chest as visions of his upcoming revenge overlaid themselves over his father’s pleasure-snarled face.

He could use the saw, he thought as his own hand sped up to match the new pace Harry had complied with. He hadn’t used anything other than the knife, yet, and wouldn’t it be so lovely to cut off that greedy, grasping hand? He could tourniquet it, his father might live for _ days _ afterwards in complete —

With a sudden flurry of cursing and choking noises, he realized that his father had come, that blasted hand holding Harry’s head down onto his lap so that he couldn’t escape. _ Or breathe. _

Definitely the saw, he thought furiously, his grip tightening around himself. And pliers, and perhaps a hammer and some carpentry nails and —

Once Harry was finally released, he threw himself back and to the side, revealing his wrecked face to Tom, who sidled to the side in order to keep it within view. Harry coughed, scrubbing his mouth clean with his jacket sleeve, his face made beautiful by several shining lines of teartracks, indicating he’d been crying for the whole of the ordeal.

Utterly exquisite.

Tom came, closing his eyes against the horrific vision of his boy’s devastated, abused face, and catching his emission in his open handkerchief. 

Perhaps only one grave would need to be dug, then.

By midnight he had a full list of plans, as well as the considerations each idea would bring with them. He wanted to give each of his ideas his full attention. After all, there were _ so _ many lovely ways in which to kill a man. Two men, if Harry proved less faithful than his tortured expression earlier in the night would suggest.

The next morning, after a night of wonderful dreams, Harry served his father breakfast with the bruised eyes and pale face of someone who lost a significant amount of sleep. His eyes flicked to Tom (almost _ desperately_, he thought fancifully) and then with a crumpling of his features Harry turned away to go stand by the wall.

Back to one set of funeral expenses, then, Tom decided. He mentally crossed a couple options off his list.

“I was thinking after the shipwright’s we might visit the club for lunch,” Tom offered his father in a lighthearted voice. “Perhaps we could take a turn at cricket on the lawn, there.” He sliced into his roasted tomato, enjoying the reddened flood of moisture it produced as he did so.

“That sounds possible,” Father allowed, spearing a sausage from his own plate.

_ ‘A tourniquet on every limb,’ _ Tom’s mind demanded of him as the man brought the entire uncut sausage to his mouth _ like a savage _ and bit the end off slowly, staring at a rapidly greening Harry as he did so. _ ‘Tied tightly, and then removed all at once so he knows exactly when his end will come.’ _

He didn’t know if such a thing were possible, but by God, he would find out at his father’s expense. He turned his gaze towards Harry, whose hand was pressed to his stomach as he gulped rapidly in rejection of the spectacle Father had made of himself — until he caught sight of Tom’s expression and paled further, jerking his gaze back down to his feet, his nausea seemingly overtaken by fear.

“I thought the fresh air might be nice,” Tom said suddenly, continuing the previously stalled conversation as if his father’s obscene ploy had never occurred at all. “Perhaps if the Thompsons are present we could challenge them to a game. Surely that would impress that old man of Eliza’s.”

His father chuckled, evidently quite pleased with life that morning. “Yes, yes. That would be good. How delightful to see your growing interest in the lass.”

Tom watched Harry’s eyes shut in that same plea for help he’d worn the day before.

“Absolutely besotted,” he murmured softly, watching those lips with their slight purple bruising turn down at the edges.

His poor, broken boy.

Tom suggested a spontaneous tour of the shipyard while confirming the purchase of two new boats for their fleet. The plans were really quite superb; Davis Shipmaker had quite outdone himself when meeting their specifications. Once the man’s ledger was several thousand pounds further into the black, Master Shipmaker was only too glad to tour them around and show them his other works in progress.

Whilst visiting the club they took their luncheon indoors, where the Thompsons were _ not _ , but the Shaws and the Edwardses were, and they took their meals together. That meal became drinks, and then the Thompsons _ did _ join them for a round of cricket — which quickly became two, and then three games as Eliza’s father tried unsuccessfully to get even one win against the both of them.

As they left, everyone outside was treated to the view of a father and son flush with their dual victory, celebrating each other’s efforts.

Perfect.

At dinner’s conclusion, Tom was dismissed to his room again, and Harry ordered to bring that same gluttonous amount of brandy to his father’s room.

This time, he didn’t bother to remove anything but his shoes before adjourning to the room down the hall. He wouldn’t be staying hidden for long.

“I _ can’t,_” he heard his Harry say soon after he'd entered Father’s rooms, the raised voice broken by a sob already. “I can’t _ do _ this!”

“Oh?” came the inquiring reply. Tom reached the door in time to see his father speak the next part, the fingers of one hand lifted to his chin as if in deep thought, Harry out of sight behind the door. “But I thought you said you loved him.”

Tom stopped breathing, to better hear Harry’s quick response. “I _ do_!” he cried, voice cracking. “That’s _ why _ I cannot —”

“If you do then you must,” Father interrupted, voice reasonable. “For if you don’t…”

“_Don’t_,” Harry protested quickly, the begging tone ringing out pathetically. “Don’t call the constable. Don’t turn him in. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

Tom snarled silently. So that’s how his father had won Harry’s unwilling submission. What information did Father have? Tom's play with the Thompson’s dog? The mangy neighborhood cat? Or the return to mercy he'd given the pigeon with the broken wing?

“I don’t want to hear of this again,” his father responded strictly.

“I won’t,” Harry agreed, voice tormented. “Just don’t turn Tom in. He’ll marry the Thompson girl. Don’t send him to the sanitarium.”

Ah. So his father thought to threaten Harry with Tom’s imprisonment for homosexual behavior. It could only mean that they had been perhaps a little too careless in sharing their affections, if he was able to trap Harry so neatly in the lie… and it was a lie, for there was no way the man would ever send his only heir away and destroy his own legacy.

“Come here, then, and show me how earnest you are to secure his freedom.”

“Yes, s-sir.”

“Good boy.”

Tom’s fists clenched, but as Harry knelt and his father loosened his cravat, tossing it carelessly to the side, he began to grin, all but one plan vanishing off the list. Oh yes, he thought, obscene noises befouling his ears. He knew exactly what to do now.

He waited only as long as he absolutely must before pushing the door open and striding straight for that discarded length of fabric, eyes held carefully away from his boy's moving head as he picked it up, movements calm and causal.

“Tom?” his father gasped, startled. 

Harry’s head came up with a great, choking inhale, and Tom stood directly behind him, stretching the retrieved cravat between his hands and wrapping the deep plum silk around his palms once. He would have preferred twice, but there just wasn't enough slack.

“Hello, Father,” he greeted with a grin, letting his true menacing intent _ finally _ be seen.

“Now, Tom —”

“Did you think I would let you get away with it?” he hissed, interrupting whatever foolish bargaining his father was going to attempt. “Did you think I would _ ever _ let you live, knowing you had touched what was _ mine_?”

His eyes widened, and Harry sobbed by his feet, knowing Tom's deepest, most hidden temperaments and desires better than anyone. “What?” his father breathed, stunned.

So, he had no clue about Tom’s little hobby after all.

“Tom, please,” Harry wept. “S-so sorry…”

“It’s better for me if you don’t struggle,” he advised his father, almost kindly. The man was still sitting stock-still when Tom leapt into action, landing next to the chair in one breath and wrapping the cravat back around his neck with the next, yanking the man back down into his chair from where he’d begun rising in a panic.

“Grab his hands,” he grunted towards Harry’s astonished form on the floor, dodging his father’s flailing arms while holding the crossed length of fabric firmly in place, pulling slightly upwards and to the left as he tightened his grip.

“Tom,” Harry said, looking dazed as if he didn’t quite believe the reality of what he was seeing. Perhaps he thought it was his own death Tom had been leading up to. There was still time for it, if He kept _ lying on the floor_.

“Grab. His. _ Arms. Harry_,” Tom ground out, losing patience swiftly.

Luckily for Harry, obeying Tom no matter what had always been a particularly keen skill of his, and his body jumped into action even with fear and uncertainty still shining strong on his features.

“Don’t leave any scratches on his skin,” Tom ordered, “and don’t let him ruin his fingernails.”

His beautiful boy roughly blinked his continued tears out of his sight as he obeyed, and he hung on, babbling apologies to either or both of them and to God as he prevented his employer — his _ abuser_, Tom corrected viciously — from tearing his fingernails apart against his son's makeshift ligature. It took a few minutes for Father to die, long enough that Tom eventually rolled his eyes and began thinking longingly of that saw.

When at last the body under their hands loosened into unconsciousness, Harry fell away from the body, shuddering.

“Is he gone?” he whispered, holding his empty hands to his chest as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I need you to listen to his heartbeat,” Tom told him calmly, maintaining even pressure and that same upward angle on his father’s neck. “You did well, Harry.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Harry asked, sniffling as he complied.

“What do you _ think _ I should do?” Tom asked, a bit of edge entering his voice. “You, who sought to save me by betraying me?”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered. “He said he’d send you to the sanitarium because of what I’d done to you. His… his heart’s quiet but still beating. Really fast.”

“Not too much longer then,” Tom said soothingly. “And I don’t recall you ever doing _ anything _ to me. I seem to recall you always needing a good amount of convincing…”

“It thumped,” Harry interrupted, a slight hysterical note entering his voice. “It thumped louder suddenly.”

Tom sighed. “Finally.” He unwrapped his aching hands and adjusted the ends, tying a knot that should be easily reversible if one gets to it in time, then tightening it back to a suffocating tightness, “No more thumps?” he asked, checking in.

“No,” Harry answered, face screwing up in awful realization.

“Good. Help me with him before he stiffens.”

“Oh, God,” Harry sobbed, stumbling backwards to where Father’s feet had kicked out before stilling. “Oh, mercy.”

“Trust me,” Tom growled. “This _ was _ one.”

With his emotionally delicate partner's help, they arranged his father on the bed, curling his fingers around his cock tightly and tying the cravat onto the bedpost where it met the headboard until it was fully secure against their tugging. The upward angle it made on his neck as he hung from it matched Tom’s handiwork perfectly, he noted with a fierce wave of satisfaction. With the knot itself being one that is easily undone and with the well-sampled decanter of Brandy and the empty, used glass sitting next to his chair…

Well, there was only one conclusion to be drawn, wasn't there?

“What now?” Harry asked once the scene was set to Tom’s liking. His head hung, ready for Tom’s wrath.

Such a perfect boy.

“Now we both go to bed,” Tom said decisively. “You to the servant’s quarters where everyone can see you, and I to my suite. In the morning he will be discovered by someone who is not either of us, and I will order the constable will be called. I will explain my father’s shameful hobby and this will all be written down as a terrible accident.”

“But… what I did…”

Tom stepped close to him, lifting his hands to squeeze Harry’s shoulders… the first touch he’d been allowed by the young man in days. “Maybe I have not done a good enough job at conveying this,” he began, voice darkening as he spoke, “but you are _ mine_. Mine to have, and hold, and mine to _ fucking protect. _ Understood?”

Harry nodded rapidly, tears falling again. “Yes,” he said weakly.

“Harry,” Tom prompted, pulling the boy in closer and cradling his upturned face as he stepped forward. “My Harry. Sweet boy. What pain you have been through… hmm? But if you ever betray me again…” One hand slid down to squeeze gently around his throat, the intimation clear. “Understood?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered, eyes round with fear.

“Good.” He set Harry back from him, turning away and heading for the open door. Sloppy. Thankfully it hadn’t been a problem this time. “Clean your teeth and mouth out thoroughly before you come near me again.”

“Yes,” Harry replied meekly, his footsteps following unevenly behind Tom.

Outside, in the darkened hallway with the door shut between them and the scene of their crime, Harry hesitated, lingering by Tom’s elbow.

“Go to sleep, sweet boy,” Tom murmured, combing back his fringe and pressing a kiss to his exposed hairline. “It will all be over after tomorrow.”

“Until you marry the Thompson girl,” Harry muttered sullenly.

“Yes,” Tom agreed, pleased by Harry’s obvious anger. He smiled at the return of the beautiful fire which had originally turned his attention towards his young servant. “Until I marry the Thompson girl, and she moves into her own room with her own bed... which she will share with her maid.”

Harry’s mouth fell open slightly as he processed that. “Her… maid?”

“Oh, Harry,” Tom ridiculed, smirking. “Did you honestly think I was going to commit to anything that might drive you away from me? Because I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, lowering his voice as he leant forward until their cheeks just brushed. “You may be mine, but I am also _ yours_.”

A quiet sob came from Harry then, and Tom stood straight again.

“Splash some water on your face before you go before the others,” he ordered. “And go swiftly to sleep. If anyone asks, you were with me, reading me the correspondence I missed while I was out today.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered, and Tom noted with approval that no trace of that mutinous pain he had heard when Harry’d spoken the words to his deceased father colored his voice. Just acceptance.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry looked at him, searching. “Goodnight,” he answered after a moment.

The next morning, Tom was woken by a tentative knock on his bedroom door.

"Good morning sir…" their butler, Louis greeted, face drawn. "Sir, I'm so sorry. Something has occurred in your father's room overnight."

Tom resisted the urge to cackle, instead tilting his head in confusion. "'_Occurred_?'" he asked, as I'd he found the word confusing and slightly frightening. "What was it?"

"I am so sorry, sir," Louis repeated, voice gentle and overly deferential in his urge to spare Tom's tender feelings. “Your father he… well, it is difficult to say… _ here._”

Tom let his body sway into the doorframe. “_Oh,_” he vocalized, voice thick with sudden understanding and what he hoped sounded like anguish. “Not this again.”

Louis’s face lit with the cautious hope he might not have to explain the state in which he’d found the master of the house. “Sir, he didn’t… in time...”

“Oh, God,” Tom mumbled, lifting a hand to his mouth. He couldn’t make it shake, but perhaps the way he let his eyes drift, inattentive to his surroundings would be enough to imply horrification. “Quickly,” he said then, hushed and hurried, “take me to him. Don’t let a-anyone else see…”

Louis’s hand clapped onto his bare shoulder supportively as Tom strode quickly down the hallway in his current state of scandalous undress, dry fingers rubbing redness into his eyes.

“Oh,” he called, turning away from his father’s bed at first glance. “Oh. it’s worse than —”

“Sir,” Louis prompted gently when Tom pretended he could not continue speaking. “Shall I call the coroner?”

“No,” Tom gasped, clutching at his chest and then starting, as if he hadn’t realized until that moment his shirtless condition. “No,” he repeated, a note of firm resolve entering his voice. “We cannot let the manner of his death spread. Please call the constable, Louis. My… my father was a g-good man - I won’t let his name be —”

“Of course, sir,” Louis cut in, an urgent concern filling his voice as Tom visibly unraveled again. “I will call the constable. He will undoubtedly come presently, so perhaps you should consider getting dressed…”

“Yes,” Tom muttered, as if coming out of a deep distraction. “Yes, of course, you’re right. If you would, please send m-my father’s manservant to my room so I may inform him personally. My father rescued him as a child, you see… he will need to be told…”

“The truth?” Louis asked, voice conveying how bad of an idea he found that to be.

“No… my father… he died in his sleep, do you hear? No signs of — of a fit or… _ hysteria_, do you understand?”

Louis easily bent before Tom’s desperation, and one ten minute stretch later Harry quietly slipped into his room, turning the handle before shutting the door without making a sound.

"Ah-ah," Tom chided, greeting his guest with hands stretched welcomingly, palms up in offering.

Harry accepted the gesture, placing his hands on Tom's cautiously. "'Ah-ah,' what?" he asked, wary.

Tom grinned. His boy wasn't afraid of him this morning. Fantastic.

"No sneaking anymore," Tom crooned, pulling Harry closer by their connection. "No more hiding our association. From now on you will be assisting me as my personal manservant Harry. You may come and go from wherever I am and no one will even notice.”

Those vivid green eyes shuttered briefly with the return of Tom’s honeyed manners. This was the way he preferred to speak to Harry. This was the care he preferred to lavish on the only person he’d ever treasured. There would be a punishment, of course, later that night when the constable had gone and the house was dark, but for now he sought to soothe his favorite possession so that he could get through the day’s theatrics intact.

“What about Mills?” Harry asked as Tom’s fingers slid around his throat. He tilted his head back, perfectly submissive even though the scene he’d witnessed last night was surely racing through his mind.

"_Mills_ was not the manservant to the master of the house. You were. And now I am the master and you are mine."

Tom pressed a light kiss to the skin of his neck opposite to his hand, and Harry shuddered, caught between threat and seduction. If Tom were to slide his hand down Harry’s front then, he knew he would find a greedy hardness straining against the front of his trousers.

“Did you clean your teeth?” he inquired next, pressing slow, measures kisses up Harry’s neck and jaw, stopping at his cheek for the answer.

“Yes,” Harry answered thinly, his breath lost. “I used a half-box of powder and scrubbed until my gums were bleeding, then washed my mouth out with dry gin until it stung.”

Above and beyond, what a terribly good boy.

“Let me see,” Tom said gently, urging Harry’s head back and mouth open. His boy was like soft clay in his hands, ready to be molded just like his forebears molded their pots, and Tom pushed Harry’s lips away from his teeth, humming as he noted the reddened flesh holding onto his teeth and the shiny brightness of the over-polished enamel. “Beautiful,” he pronounced, bringing Harry’s face close to his own.

“You have done well to erase every trace of him from your mouth,” Tom praised, letting his lips brush against Harry’s the way he knew the younger man liked. “Now, tell me the secret you've been hiding from me, but felt the need to share with my father.”

Harry shuddered anew under his hands at the sudden darkness to his tone. Poor dear, his cock must be positively painful by now, Tom mused. Hopefully he would confess quickly and leave Tom enough time to do something about it before the constable arrived.

“I didn’t think you would want to hear it,” Harry admitted.

“You were mistaken,” Tom growled.

“I love you,” Harry whispered, eyes shut, his expression clearly expecting pain.

“Oh, my perfect boy, you should have told me _ first_,” Tom said softly, tapping a scolding finger against Harry’s wounded mouth.

“Perfect?” Harry parroted, brow knitting in confusion.

“Have I not called you that before?” Tom inquired, one eyebrow raised.

“Never.” Harry looked struck by it too. Perhaps Tom had been far more remiss in distributing adulation than he’d previously thought. He would have to correct the problem in the future.

“It seems you deserve more forgiveness than I had realized,” Tom said, carefully navigating the process of claiming fault. Only with Harry could he actually get close to meaning it. “Therefore the punishment I had planned… will have to wait until you actually have earned it.”

He hoped Harry didn’t catch how disappointed he was to abandon his previous plans.

“Oh?” Harry inquired, frowning. “_Punishment_?”

“See?” Tom crooned, crowding Harry back towards an empty stretch of wall. “So perfect, so good for me that after all this time, you have yet to discover punishment was even an option.”

“Is it going to hurt?” Harry fretted, leaning against the wall with Tom’s guidance.

“Undoubtedly,” he confirmed.

“Oh.”

"But not right now," Tom informed him, all sweetness pouring from his voice and gaze as he began to work open Harry's vest, trousers, and the corseted waistband of his drawers. "Right now I am going to remind you why you _ want _ to belong to me."

A strange and wonderful thing about Harry was that sometimes Tom could tell the young man straight out how Tom was manipulating him… and instead of being insulted he became turned on. Like now, with Harry groaning and pulling Tom close, his knees bowing out as Tom wrapped a dry, firm hand around his length.

"Touch me too, or I won't let you finish," Tom whispered hotly into Harry's ear in another bald manipulation that was received with a quickening of breath and scrambling to open the appropriately somber shirt and trousers Tom had managed to pick out before Harry's arrival. "Yes," he hissed as Harry's callused hand, far rougher than his own, wrapped around him. It always hurt so good when they did it like this.

"This is mine," Tom grunted, squeezing Harry's prick roughly as his own was treated in kind. "Only mine. It is only my_ extreme _ generosity that allows you to touch it at all, even to relieve yourself."

Harry whined, his free hand clenching on Tom's shirt, pulling him ever closer. How painful it must be to feel so much, all the time. It was only right that Tom should be the master of his heart as well, to protect it from directing such emotions towards the undeserving.

"Tom, please," Harry cried, as Tom's palm chafed around the boy's leaking head.

"Please, what, my lover?" Tom ground out, losing himself to the delicious burn of Harry's rough handling. He bent his head, biting harshly over the fabric covering Harry's shoulder, shoving their hands together so they kept exact pace.

"Yes," Harry breathed, shoving his shoulder down so Tom had more area to claim. "Exactly that. Oh, Lord, _ yes_…"

Sensing Harry was lost to the world and near completion, Tom thrust his free hand into his pocket, and then covered the head of the boys cock with the handkerchief he'd retrieved.

"That's my boy," Tom breathed as Harry groaned, eyes rolling back but mouth clenched shut and noises stifled the way he'd been trained to do. "Such a perfect boy."

Harry's hand didn't stutter on Tom's length ('_good, good, good, sweet boy…'_) just the way he knew Tom liked, and between that competent, painful hand and the vision of delight that was Harry's face, hurt by Tom overstimulating his spent head but submitting to his will anyway…

Tom shifted the messy handkerchief over to his own cock, then, the cooling wetness adding another layer of depravity to their hurried union as he pulsed into it, his very essence blending and melding with Harry's, just as it should be.

"I love you," Harry was babbling, Tom realized, his voice thick and teary with an emotion Tom couldn't name. "Love you, love you, love you…"

Tom straightened.

"Come," he ordered. "Straighten your clothes. We must be ready and properly mournful for the coroner's arrival."

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed, breath still hitching as he complied.

It was ridiculously easy to convince the constable to mark 'natural causes' on his death report. Really, it did reveal the inherently broken way death was handled in their modern society, Tom mused. Not that he was above taking full advantage of the opportunity handed him.

“_Please,_” Tom had pleaded, the extra pressure he put on the word making his voice crack gorgeously. “Please, his good name will be _ ruined _ if you flag it for investigation.”

The constable had hesitated, visibly swayed by Tom’s show of emotion. “Alright,” he relented at last. “I won’t call the coroner.”

“Thank you,” Tom warbled, a fresh tear streaking down one side of his face.

As the priest’s men carried the covered body out the room and the constable left with it, Harry stared at Tom in what appeared to be both horror and awe.

Tom reached for him, tilting Harry’s face backwards to look full into his own.

“You are mine,” he reminded those widened eyes. “You are only mine, forever. Do you finally understand this?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed.

And until the end of Tom's days, it was so.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing anything like this. I kept having to delete things because my poor saccharine heart kept trying to turn it into a hurt/comfort fic. 😂😂
> 
> I'll neaten up the formatting and add pretty scene change markers sometime this week, but for now I need to get to work on the second fic of the fest :blobsweat:


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